


Killer's Instinct

by holeofholland



Category: A Nightmare on Elm Street (Movies 1984-1994), Halloween Movies - All Media Types, Scream (Movies), The Texas Chainsaw Massacre (Movies)
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Babysitting, Blow Jobs, Bondage, Butt Slapping, Choking, Cock Slut, Cock Worship, Come Eating, Come Swallowing, Comeplay, Creampie, Deepthroating, Dildos, Dream Sex, Dubious Consent, Facials, Forest Sex, Gay, Gay Sex, Hair-pulling, Halloween, Large Cock, M/M, Multiple Sex Positions, No Plot/Plotless, One Shot Collection, Oral Sex, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Rough Oral Sex, Rough Sex, Serial Killers, Spanking, Verbal Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-03
Updated: 2020-10-23
Packaged: 2021-03-08 00:55:23
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 7,527
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26746969
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/holeofholland/pseuds/holeofholland
Summary: Freddy Krueger. Michael Myers. Ghostface. Leatherface. Four of the most iconic horror film villains all out with a vengeance for you...
Relationships: Freddy Krueger/Reader, Freddy Krueger/You, Ghostface (Scream)/Reader, Ghostface (Scream)/You, Leatherface | Bubba "Junior" Sawyer/You, Leatherface | Bubba "Junior" Sawyers/Reader, Michael Myers/Reader, Michael Myers/You
Comments: 23
Kudos: 163





	1. One, Two, Freddy's Coming in You

**Author's Note:**

> This is a collection of one-shots focused on four horror film villains. There is no blood or graphic violence depicted in these stories but the sexual content is rough. Things border on taboo and dubious. You have been warned.

You wake gasping for air. Your lungs burn and the air feels hot. You touch your palm to your forehead and pull back sticky droplets of sweat. _What?_ You think. _It wasn’t hot when I fell asleep._

You throw back your blankets and climb out of bed. When you go to step onto your usually comforting carpet, you instead find a cool metal grate. You gasp and step back, expecting to fall on your bed but it’s gone. In fact, your entire room has vanished. You stand, now, in a decrepit boiler room of sorts. Red-hot pipes run the length of the dwarfed ceiling, hissing every few seconds. All around you are massive vats of what you can only imagine is water— _very hot_ water.

“What the—?” you begin before stopping short at the sight of a figure in the distance. It’s short, no taller than a plastic garbage can—maybe even shorter. A dim light flickers behind the figure, silhouetting two braided pigtails and the ruffles of a skirt. _A little girl?_ You ask yourself. Surely, someone’s child hasn’t snuck down into such a dangerous place.

You inch towards the figure, careful to watch your footing on the grate. Through the holes of it, you can see a drop of at least thirty feet. You can’t even begin to imagine what might happen if you were to take that fall.

As you draw closer to the girl, she becomes easier to make out. Her hair is blonde, the pigtails tied off with ruby red ribbon. Her dress is the color of sapphires and adorned with golden pendants. You glance your reflection in them but…no. That can’t be right. The person looking back at you is grotesque looking, burned it would seem.

“What?” you ask no one in particular. Then, remembering the girl, you reach a hand towards her shoulder. “Sweetheart, do you—”

“ _NO!_ ” She cries out upon feeling your touch. You both cry out as she stumbles back, trips over her footing, and collapses onto the grate. Immediately, you come to her aid. You bring her into your lap and begin to ask her if she’s alright. Something’s changed though. A little girl this figure is not. She’s changed.

“What the fuck?” you squeal, dropping the now-skeletal remains of the child.

You jump to your feet and edge backward only to knock into something. No, not some _thing_ —some _one._ You turn and scream at the sight of the pendant’s reflection come to life. Standing before you, dressed in his usual striped sweater and dusty fedora, is the man responsible for filling your nights with terror.

Your eyes bulge as he approaches you and flicks the razor-adorned glove on his right hand. “ _Miss me?_ ” he purrs, his voice like nails—or razors—on a chalkboard.

You shake your head briskly. Tears threaten to spill over. “What do you want?”

“You know what I want,” the man assures you. The closer he draws, the harder your heart beats. It feels like it’s rising into your throat, or maybe that’s bile. Either way, you feel sick. If you don’t find an escape, you don’t know what will happen. With the threatening look on the man’s face and the way he moves his gloved hand, whatever it is can’t be good.

“Get away from me!” you demand before turning and fleeing further into the boiler room.

You pass down one, two, three catwalks before finally finding a ladder. As quickly as possible, you make your way down it. Once on the lowest level of the room, you look for a place to hide. Nothing is particularly welcoming or concealing, for that matter.

During your frantic search, the man calls out to you. “Oh, pretty boy,” he cackles. “Freddy’s coming in you!”

“ _Freddy…_ ” you whisper aloud. It connects then. All the rhymes and myths, legends, and fairytales. In Springwood, they all lead back to one man and one man only—Freddy Krueger.

You curse his name once more before fleeing into the depths of the lower level. Eventually, you come upon a set of lockers, probably used by the employees at some point. But no, this is a dream, you remember, and there is no one else. And if this is a dream…

“What’s stopping him from finding me?” you gasp.

“BINGO!” Freddy screams, his voice deafening in your ear.

You turn to run but it’s too late. He has you in his clutches. He brings you inches from him and drags his tongue slickly across your cheek and ear. You squirm and struggle but there’s no use. This is his world and this is his power.

He turns you over and throws you against the lockers. You smack against them hard, the metal digging into your chest. Freddy trudges up behind you and your breath hitches. You squint your eyes closed and brace for the killing blow. Any second, you know he’ll drive those razor fingers through your back, maybe slice up a little. You’ll be dead in less than a minute but you’ll feel every second of it until then.

“I’ve been waiting for this,” he growls into your ear.

You tremble and begin crying. Tears begin spilling down your cheeks as you feel Freddy pull back. _Father, who art…_ You begin spewing out in your mind any prayer you can remember, any rhyme or reason as to why you shouldn’t fear what’s coming.

“Please!” you scream. “Just get it over with!”

As soon as the words are out of your mouth, Freddy’s on you. You gasp instinctively but feel no pain. Instead, you feel a sudden chill on your legs. A second later, you feel the slickness of a tongue between your cheeks. It hits you then. Freddy isn’t trying to kill you. He’s trying to fuck you. And while he may do the former after the fact, you know you don’t want to die having not had sex.

“Holy shit,” you breathe as he swirls his tongue in a way you’ve never felt. Granted, you’ve never felt any tongue back there.

Freddy chuckles against your hole. “I knew a little faggot like you would like this.”

Though you don’t understand why the jab ignites your passion. You moan and arch your back, shoving your ass hard against Freddy’s face. He revels in the act, increasing his wrath. His hands, both now gloveless, dig into your cheeks. He kneads them like sourdough as he makes butter from your opening. If this were all you’d get from Freddy, you’d be happy. But no, that’s really a lie. You crave more, desire every last bit the man can give you.

You push against him further and moan. “Please, Freddy, fuck me…”

“You really want this?” he growls, biting your cheek after.

You hiss. “Yes, please.”

Freddy stands and you hear him undo his pants. You expect the impact any second but it doesn’t come. Instead, Freddy stands to the side and brings his hand down on your ass. You gasp as he does it over and over. By the time he’s done, your cheeks feel swollen. You try to catch your breath but there isn’t any time. As soon as he’s done spanking you, Freddy arches behind you and forces his way in your hole.

The pain is immeasurable. You swear you can feel your skin ripping. Tears pour as you bite your lip and whine. As Freddy dives in further, you let loose and howl into the air. To any normal person, it’d be a sign to stop or to at least take a break. To Freddy though, it is an invitation for more.

“You fucking slut,” he curses as he begins thrusting forcibly. You wince with each smack of flesh, curse as he touches your spot over and over. A hand wraps around your neck and squeezes. You gag and cough, but Freddy doesn’t relent. “Take it like the bitch you are. Yeah…you’re such a good fucking fag.”

“Yes…sir,” you manage to gasp out through his choking.

Eventually, Freddy picks up a speed you never knew humanly possible. He releases your neck and forces you forward. With your head between your knees, you can see Freddy’s legs. They wobble as he pumps over and over until at long last he thrusts for a final time. He howls deafeningly as his come explodes inside you, paints every inch of your walls. When he’s done, he releases you and throws you to the ground where you feel his release leak between your cheeks.

“W-What now?” you whimper, watching him redress.

He slips on his glove and points one of the fingers at you. “Make them afraid. You do that and I won’t kill you.”

You nod understandably before Freddy waltzes towards you. He swings out his glove. It’s sure to hit you. But mere centimeters away, you gasp and find yourself awake in bed. Immediately, you climb to your feet and check that you’re no longer dreaming. Everything seems real. The walls, the carpet, the…stain on your sheets.

“Damn,” you whisper into the darkness. “What a dream.”


	2. The Night He Came

You come downstairs and sigh, having finally put the kids to sleep. The clock on the stove blinks **11:21** as you pad into the kitchen. It’s like a poisonous reminder that you’re two hours behind on the parents’ orders. The half-eaten bowl of popcorn and opened two-liter of _Pepsi_ sitting on the granite island are just a couple more mistakes to check off the list hanging on the refrigerator. You read it off to yourself like you have a hundred times before when babysitting for this family.

_ House Rules _

  1. _No Sweets (Soda included)_
  2. _No movies above PG rating_
  3. _No swearing_
  4. _No fighting_
  5. _Bedtime 9:15_



“My fucking bad,” you quip with a half-grin before opening the refrigerator and surveying its contents. Nothing looks too appetizing besides a day-old pizza and case of beer hidden in the far back. You pull out the box and snag a can of _Bud_ before kicking the door closed and settling in at the island. You flip open the box and dive into a slice of pepperoni.

As you chew, you glance around the kitchen. The decoration theme is not something you would have picked. Tin roosters and black mini-chalkboards are hung haphazardly on the walls. Salt and Pepper shakers shaped like Hansel and Gretel sit on the stove. Peelable stickers with “inspirational phrases” line the backsplash. _Faith doesn’t make things easy; it makes things possible._

You roll your eyes at the nonsense and mutter, “Fanatics.” You stand then, unopened beer in one hand and half-eaten slice of pizza in the other, and head for the living room where _the Thing_ is playing on the television. “Oh shit, it’s PG-13.”

You laugh at your little joke before stopping cold at the telephone’s ringing. It’s strange, you think, that someone would be calling so late. It’s Halloween night and most everyone should be out trick-or-treating. Those who aren’t are either too old or too tired and more than likely in bed. Though really, you remind yourself while standing, you’re just overthinking things. More than likely, it’s the parents.

“Hello?” you ask politely, holding the receiver to your ear. Instinctively, you hide the beer behind your back as if they can see you.

“Hell yeah, I knew this was the right number,” the voice on the other end of the phone exclaims. It belongs to your best friend who cackles when you curse him out.

“What the hell do you want?” you ask, annoyed. “And how did you even get this number?”

“Phone book,” your friend explains blandly. “Some of us do still have those, you know.”

You sigh. “Whatever. Look, I’m not supposed to be taking phone calls. They get a printout every month or something.”

“Damn. Strict.” Your friend falls silent and you hear his television in the background. You make out the words “murdered” and “escaped” and pale.

“What are you watching?” you ask hurriedly.

Your friend chuckles. “Oh shit! You haven’t heard?” You shake your head although he can’t see you. “Flip to channel thirteen news.”

“Give me a sec,” you say before grabbing the remote control. Once switched over, you watch a newscaster with a grim face explain the scene behind him. A two-story house is cordoned off with police tape. Officers are scattered on the lawn, talking amongst each other as two ambulance drivers cart out two bodies beneath sheets.

“It’s crazy, right?” Your friend says. “Over on Pine.”

“ _Pine?_ ” You squeal. “That’s just around the block.”

Your friend sounds excited about the idea of a crazed killer loose so close to you. “Yeah, it’s insane! They still haven’t caught the guy. Apparently, he broke free from Smith’s Grove.”

“Wait,” you interrupt. “It’s not…that Strode woman’s brother?”

“The very one.”

“Holy shit…” you breathe.

Just then, something crashes in the kitchen. You jump back and clutch the phone to your ear. “Oh my god,” you whisper.

Your friend presses eagerly. “Ooh, the boogeyman break in?”

“Shut it,” you hiss before snagging a poker from the fireplace.

“I’m just kidding. It’s probably one of the kids wanting a late-night snack.”

“I’m gonna go see,” you explain. “Don’t hang up. And if you hear screaming, call nine-one-one.”

“Then I’d have to hang up,” your friend quips.

You don’t reply to his games and instead sit the phone down on its small table. With the poker held firmly in your hands, you inch towards the kitchen. Just around the corner, you burst out and fling your weapon wildly. It’s to no avail though. The kitchen is undisturbed, save for the bowl of popcorn on the floor and the family cat on the island.

“Idiot cat,” you mumble as you sit him on the ground and begin sweeping up the popcorn with your hand. You’ve just about cleared it when the sound of an aluminum can being opened alerts you to the living room. Immediately, you jump to your feet and rush to find the culprit, poker raised in defense. But again, the room is empty. Your beer sits on the side table, freshly opened.

Quickly, you pick up the phone and ask, “Did you hear anything?”

“Sounded like a guy having a good time,” he jokes.

You cut your eyes as if he can see. “Shut up. Jesus H. I’m serious.”

Your friend lets a chuckle die before clearing his throat. “Just a can opening. Maybe some footsteps? It’s probably just one of the kids, man.”

“Yeah,” you say. “Well, I’ll be the judge of that.”

You sit the phone back down before making your way over to and up the stairs. You stop in front of the second door on the left of the hallway and peek inside. Both kids are sound asleep or at least pretending to be. They obviously didn’t touch the beer. So if they didn’t…

The possibility of the masked killer in the house haunts you as you pad down the stairs. At the last step, you stop dead. The can of beer sits in the middle of the floor, still bubbling. Your heart begins racing then. You mentally run through your advantages and disadvantages at your current state. Advantage: you have a weapon. Disadvantage: this guy is probably far stronger than you.

“No, no, no,” you mutter as you duck into the living room and snatch the phone up. You hold it to your ear, expecting to hear your friend’s voice but the line is silent. You slam the phone down with a resounding “Shit!” before heading into the kitchen. Everything is as it seems, even the front door that remains locked. You race to it and throw back the latch. You swing the door open and…

A pair of arms wrap around your waist. As soon as you feel them, you begin flailing your limbs and screaming. The fight doesn’t last long as your intruder stuffs your mouth with some kind of fabric. He holds your arms steady as he tosses you onto the island. Your back aches as the two-liter bottle digs into your spine before sliding onto the floor.

“Fuck…” you groan through the makeshift-gag. Your vision is hazy for a moment but once it clears, you know exactly who you’re dealing with. You spit the gag out and stare wide-eyed at him. “Michael Myers.”

He cocks his head to the side but doesn’t say a word. Of course, he doesn’t. All the news channels reported he never has, at least not since the night he butchered his older sister. He was only six years old at the time but capable of leaving Judith unrecognizable. At a fifty-something giant of a man, you’re not quite sure what to imagine he’s capable of. You don’t intend to take the time to either.

“Fuck you,” you spit at Michael before hopping off the island. You yank open drawer after drawer until you find the one containing knives. After pulling out the biggest blade, you charge at your would-be killer and drive the silver into his shoulder. You step back then and watch as he flinches once, twice, and collapses.

“Yeah, mother fucker,” you bark, kicking him in the side for extra flare. It’s a mistake. As soon as your foot connects, Michael has a hand wrapped around your ankle. He yanks and you stumble to the ground, cracking your head against the linoleum. Your vision blurs so that all you see is a hazy silhouette towering over you. It grows closer and closer until it’s all you see. Then, the distinct scent of musk wafts into your face.

“Wha—?” you begin before your hair is pulled. It sends a searing pain throughout your head and cuts your speaking short. Your mouth falls open in a silent scream. Out of everything you’ve done tonight, it’s your worst mistake. As your lips part, your mouth is immediately filled with something warm and thick, similar to a roll of sausage. It only takes you a second to realize it’s a man. _Michael._

He’s already slick with precome and pulses wildly. His veins move as you flick your tongue to find your footing. You’ve done this a hundred times before but for some reason, this time feels different. Perhaps it’s his size or his unsuspecting force. Either way, you’re unsure of what to do. You reach to grab him, wondering if he’ll like it but he immediately forces your hand down.

His hands lace tighter in your hair then. He arches you back and begins to take control. His movements are slow at first, just slipping in and out of your mouth before he becomes comfortable enough to tease your throat. You hang limp as he works, your arms at your sides and your legs tucked between his. You’re surprised at how easily he holds you. Then you remember his size. He could probably keep you afloat with two fingers if need be.

Suddenly, Michael changes the rhythm. Instead of thrusting into your mouth, he stands still and guides you like a toy. Your head pounds at the feeling of your hair being ripped out but the mind-numbing soreness in your throat makes up for it. He speeds up, stabbing at your throat. You place a hand on your neck and feel him bulging through the skin. It’s an ecstasy you didn’t know you could feel. Your eyes roll back and you groan gutturally. Michael takes both as signs to keep going.

For a while, you’re like this. A toy for a killer’s pleasure. He uses you as he pleases, plunging into your mouth. You swirl your tongue around occasionally but, really, he’s in control. Eventually, that control breaks. Michael groans, the first you’ve known of him to make such a sound, before tossing you onto the floor. Your head hits the linoleum but you ignore the pain. Your mind is too focused on the amazement of this man hovering over you.

He leans down and rips apart your tee shirt. It falls away like a vest, exposing your body. Michael stands then and pumps himself. His head is purple and bulbous. It twitches as he groans once more and explodes. His come shoots down like a cascading waterfall, coating every inch of exposed skin. The bit that ends in your mouth is salty. Somehow though, it’s the best seed you’ve ever tasted.

Once Michael is done, he grunts and redoes his overalls. He leaves then, without saying a word. Once you’re sure he’s disappeared, you stand and search for a towel. While the floor is soaked in a puddle of the juice, what’s left on your body you’ll be savoring. Forget the pizza and beer, you’ve got your Halloween treat.


	3. What's Your Favorite Scary Movie?

The sound of the telephone ringing pierces the air as you wave your parents’ car off. Once you see their brake lights disappear around the bend, you close the door and hurry off to the kitchen where you snatch up the cordless with a click. You press the cool plastic to your ear and grin. There’s only one person who can be calling because you instructed him to, although he is a bit late.

“Hello?” you purr in the most seductive voice you can muster.

“Hello,” a strange voice answers. It doesn’t belong to the person you were expecting.

You pause for a moment, allowing the stranger to continue. You guess he’s one of your dad’s colleagues or a teacher calling to harp on your brother’s numerous academic failures. The line stays silent though. So you clear your throat and say more authoritatively than seductively, “Yes?”

“Who is this?” the voice asks.

You scoff. “Who are you trying to reach?”

“What number is this?”

“Well, what _number_ are you trying to reach?” A small grin tickles the corner of your mouth.

The voice answers softly, almost like he knows what he’s doing. And, you realize, he probably does. “I don’t know.”

You chuckle half-heartedly. “Well, I think you have the wrong number.”

“Do I?”

“It happens,” you assure the stranger as you draw the phone off of your ear. “Take it easy.”

You replace the cordless onto its base before digging through the cabinet above. From it, you retrieve a fresh Jiffy Pop bowl and set it on the stove where you turn the ignitor and wait. You lean against the kitchen island and mindlessly finger the butcher block, teasing different size knives. For fun, you pull out a particularly large one and mime stabbing an invisible victim. As the body falls soundlessly, the telephone rings again.

“Finally,” you breathe, replacing the blade and snatching up the cordless. You bring it to your ear. “What took you so long?”

“I’m sorry,” the stranger says. “I guess I dialed the wrong number.”

Your face falls. “So why’d you dial it again?”

The stranger’s voice sounds low, sorrowful. “I wanted to apologize.”

“Well, you’re forgiven. Bye.” You hover your thumb over the **END** button when the stranger mumbles something. You bring the phone back to your ear. “What?”

“I said don’t hang up yet.”

“Why not?” You waltz lazily from the kitchen to the living room where you stare out at the dark patio through the house’s sliding glass doors.

“I want to talk to you. That’s why.” The stranger is smooth, that’s something you can’t deny. You’ve never had a guy so upfront, even one who dials your number by mistake. Still, he’s a stranger, you remind yourself.

“They’ve got hotlines for that, buddy.” You click the phone off before anything else can be said and pad back to the kitchen where your popcorn is bulging. Cordless still in hand, you shimmy the Jiffy Pop over the flame, encouraging the kernels to erupt. Not a minute passes before the ringing starts up again.

You click the phone on and speak with an edge to your voice? “ _Hello?_ ”

“Why don’t you want to talk to me?” the stranger whines.

“Because I don’t know who you are,” you explain even though it should be obvious.

“Tell me your name and I’ll tell you mine.”

You continue moving the popcorn. “Yeah, nice try.”

The stranger ignores your answer, instead asking a new question. He seems to be full of them. “What’s that noise?”

“Popcorn.” You bring the phone closer to the stove and shake the bowl violently.

“You’re making popcorn?” the stranger asks when he’s back in your ear.

You nod though he can’t see you. “Yeah, why?”

“Just strange. I only eat popcorn at the movies.”

You grin. This, you decide, _could_ be a little fun. At the least, it can pass the time until you receive the call you’re expecting. “Well, I’m about to watch a movie.”

“Oh?” The stranger seems intrigued. “What movie?”

“Just some dirty movie.”

“Do you like dirty movies?”

“Uh-huh.” You bite your lip as you feel your jeans tighten.

The stranger’s voice drops so that it’s a whisper. It sends chills down your spine. “ _What’s your favorite dirty movie?_ ”

“Uh…I don’t know,” you stammer. You abandon the Jiffy Pop and take a seat at the island, resuming your toying with the knives.

The stranger is persistent in having an answer. “Come on, you’ve gotta have a favorite.”

“I really don’t,” you laugh. “They’re all kind of the same, you know?”

“I know what you mean,” the stranger resolves. The line is silent for a beat before he asks, “So, you gotta boyfriend?”

You redden and palm your bulge. “Why? You wanna ask me out?”

“Maybe,” the stranger admits. “Do you?”

“No, I don’t have a boyfriend,” you relent.

“You never told me your name.”

“Why do you want to know my name so bad?”

“Cause I want to know who I’m looking at.”

You nearly tumble off of the barstool. Your face falls. You stand and dart your eyes around the room, looking for the sign of another person. “W-What did you say?”

“I want to know who I’m talking to.”

You shake your head, determined. “That’s not what you said.”

“What do you think I said?” the stranger purrs, his voice somehow more menacing.

“Look, I gotta go. My popcorn is burning.”

“Wait,” the stranger insists. “Don’t go. I thought I was about to ask you out.”

“I don’t think so…” You bring the phone down and click it off in the middle of the stranger’s retort. As you head to assess the Jiffy Pop, the phone rings once more. Cautiously, you bring it to your ear. “Yes?”

“Don’t hang up on me.” The stranger sounds nothing like before. He’s no longer sweet or seductive. He isn’t teasing.

Your heart is racing. Blood pumps in your ears. “What do you want?”

“To talk.”

“Dial someone else.”

“Why, you getting scared?”

You don’t answer him and instead hang up. Not a second later, the phone rings again. You swallow down any fear and answer. “Listen—”

“No, you listen to me, you little bitch,” the voice cuts in. “You hang up on me again and I’ll fuck you till your guts are on the outside, got it?”

“What do you want?” you plead, tears welling in your eyes. You don’t bother to wipe them away.

“To play a game,” the stranger explains as if it’s the most obvious thing.

You shake your head violently as you dive for the biggest blade in the butcher block. “I don’t know who you are or what you really want but I’m done talking to you.” You inch into the living room, knife raised defensively. “My boyfriend is six feet tall and the quarterback of the football team. He’s on his way right now and he’ll beat your ass.”

“Your boyfriend?” The stranger actually sounds hurt. “You told me you didn’t have a boyfriend.”

“I lied!” you scream.

“Lying isn’t good. It’s okay though. I already knew you were.”

Your heart drops into your stomach. “What?”

“Turn on the patio lights.”

Neither of you says anything as you slowly draw towards the light switch panel next to the glass doors. You flip them on, glance at the patio, and scream. Your boyfriend is there, his wrists and ankles bound to the rafters. He’s completely naked and his body looks…used. It’s the first word that comes to mind when you see his candle wax-stained torso and gaping hole. His usually pale skin is blotched red and his hair is matted with sweat. Duct tape gags him, keeping him from screaming at what your sure is pain from the metal clips on his nipples and wire cage around his limp shaft.

“What the fuck do you want?” you cry, meeting your boyfriend’s frantic gaze. His eyes bulge as he pleads for your help, writhing around in the ropes.

“Turn off the lights,” the stranger instructs. “Or your boyfriend feels true pain.”

After mouthing “I’m sorry” to your boyfriend, you flip the switch, encasing the patio in darkness. “Okay, I did what you said. Now let him go.”

The stranger chuckles. It’s possibly the worst sound you’ve ever heard. “You wish it were that easy but the game has only just begun. Get comfy, we might be here a while.”

“No!” you protest. “Just leave us alone. Please!”

“Keep disobeying and I’ll make your life a living hell, you little bitch.” The stranger’s cutthroat tone is enough to snap you to attention. Though you whimper, you don’t argue any further.

“Okay,” you say flatly. “Just tell me what I have to do.”

The stranger’s voice sounds like he’s smiling. “Good boy. First thing, take off your clothes… _all_ of them.” You do, making quick work of it. “That’s a good boy.”

You freeze, underwear around your ankles. “Can…Can you see me?”

“Don’t worry about it,” the stranger growls. “Now, I want you to open your front door. There’s a little present for you.”

“Please don’t hurt me…” you cry softly as you pad naked to the front door. You throw it open and find a pink dildo sitting on the stoop. “What do you want me to do with it?”

“Sit on it,” he instructs.

Your eyes bulge. “I’m too tight. It won’t fit.”

“Wrong answer.”

Suddenly, your boyfriend’s screams rip through the air. You drop the cordless and race to the patio where you promptly flip on the light. He’s where he was before except he’s no longer limp. Tears stream his eyes as he struggles against three dildos hilt-deep in his hole. His chest and stomach are no longer flesh-toned. Red candle wax coats him, some still steamy and liquid.

“What the fuck do you want?” You scream through the house. As if in response, the hallway coat closet door bursts open. From it, a towering figure in a black cloak and ghostly mask emerges, purple dildo wielded in one hand. You standoff for a moment, just watching each other before the stranger lunges at you. You scream and throw open the patio door, stepping out into the cool autumn air.

You don’t glance behind you to see if the figure is following as your race around the side of the house. You turn the corner of the brick, coming into the front yard, and slip on the dewy grass. A squeal escapes your throat as you tumble forward, face knocking into the earth.

From behind, you feel the figure draw close. His presence is heavy like an overcast shadow. It drenches you as you struggle forward, crawling through the wet grass. You barely make it five feet before a fist is clenching your hair and hauling you up. You open your mouth to scream and get cut short by a dildo in your mouth. It plunges into your throat and gags you but there’s no way to remove it. The stranger has a hand on your wrists, binding you.

Before you realize what’s happening, your face is in the grass. You squint your eyes shut as you feel gloved hands on your waist. You gasp though it really comes out as a gargle. A part of you is afraid, frightened of this stranger. But another part, a bigger part, of you is intrigued. Your rock hard front is proof enough of that.

You go to touch yourself before remembering the stranger’s cuffing hands. He tightens his grip on you as he works out his erection. He pulls it free from beneath the cloak and smacks it against your hole. In response, your opening pulses. There’s no doubt you’re eager for this stranger. Though just to be sure he knows, you arch your ass up and wiggle it. In response, the stranger brings a hand down on your cheek. You’re gagged but you still manage to whine at the pleasurable pain.

You wiggle again, expecting the same reaction, but he doesn’t spank you. Instead, the stranger rams forward, his cock practically ripping you open. Your eyes gape and drool pools around the dildo as he thrusts over and over, his tip knocking roughly against your spot. He’s veiny and it shows, each entry rubbing your walls. It’s a ribbing you’ve never felt before. Unfortunately, it doesn’t last long.

In a matter of minutes, the stranger growls and you feel his warm come fill you. When he finishes and pulls out, some drips after him. Your hole aches and your body feels numb. Still, the stranger isn’t finished.

With the force of a bull, you’re knocked onto your back where you watch rope come down and around your ankles. Once they’re secure, the stranger attaches the rope to your wrists, hogtying you. After this, the stranger reveals a separate piece of rope. He ties it around your limbs and treks forward. Your body follows him like cattle being sold on the market. You squeal as he leads you to the front stoop. After depositing you there, the stranger disappears, leaving you with only the sounds of crickets and the warm feeling of seed leaking from your body to keep you company.


	4. The Texas Chainsaw Assacre

The sun beams down blisteringly on your face as you lean against the hot metal of your boyfriend’s pickup truck. Your arms are tomato red and your neck stings whenever you edge your head from side to side. Sweat mattes your hair to your forehead. It drips down your back and chest, soaking your shirt. How long you’ve been standing here on the shoulder of an empty Texan highway, you don’t know. Hours seems to be the likely answer, at least long enough to watch the sun climb halfway through the sky.

You watch it now, throwing your head back and sighing. You wonder where your boyfriend is. When his pickup truck began to shudder and smoke filed out from beneath its hood, you knew it was a bigger problem than his toolbox could solve. Sure enough, after pulling off the highway and checking the engine, your boyfriend announced the truck was toast. While there certainly wasn’t a service station on the road, both of you suggested one might be found on the other side of the woods facing you. With a goodbye kiss on the cheek, your boyfriend disappeared through the trees. He should have only been gone a couple of hours but now it feels like an entire day.

“Damn it,” you curse, brushing back the hair from your forehead. Your shirt begins sticking to you, irritating the skin, so you remove it and tuck the bundled fabric into your back pocket. You glance around the highway for the billionth time, still to no avail. With no sign of your boyfriend and the sun somehow growing hotter, you decide to take matters into your own hands. You lock up the truck, stuff the keys in your pocket, and head into the woods where you immediately begin to feel better.

The air here is noticeably cooler. The trees do a pretty good job of keeping the sun away though not so much that you can’t see where you’re going. By the time you reach the edge of the trees, you’re no longer sweating and your sunburn has subsided a bit. You step out of the forest into a large clearing. To one side, an abandoned field of corn sways in the settling evening air. On the other, a towering farmhouse, at least three stories tall and looking straight out of a history textbook. It reminds you of the Antebellum styles. You wonder whether it’s as old as one and decide it probably is. After all, this is Texas.

As you draw closer to the house, the odd odor of meat wafts through your nose. It churns your stomach how non-fresh it seems, like meat mixed with a dumpster. It’s not death exactly but it could be.

“Hello?” you call out when you’re a few feet from the house’s front steps. If horror movies have taught you anything, it’s that secluded houses that smell weird are best left unapproached.

No one answers, so you yell again. After three more times of one-sided greeting, you push aside your fears and step onto the front porch. You find the front door open, the elements kept contained by a screened door. It rattles when you knock on it.

“Excuse me?” You rap your knuckles hard. After a few seconds of silence, you decide to completely don the “dumb victim” stereotype of the movies and step inside the house. The minute you do, dread spills over you. While the exterior of the house seems vintage and pleasing to the eye, the inside is a scene straight out of a Ted Bundy wet dream.

The walls are lined with peeling wilderness-themed paper. Bone ornaments and sculptures adorn them—deer, rabbits, even a snake curled over a few jutted nails. The floor is scattered with garbage—single shoes, plastic grocery bags, more abandoned bones. As you cautiously (and stupidly) make your way deeper into the house, you discover the worst of the macabre décor in what is supposed to be the living room. An entire sofa is made of bone, the back topped with deer antlers. A table sits in front of that. Though it looks normal enough, made from wood, it’s filled with more bones. One catches your eye in particular. A skull… _human._

“Jesus,” you breathe, stepping back instinctively as if the skull can sense you. You keep walking back, eyes never leaving the living room, until your back meets cool metal. You turn to find some kind of door lodged in the wall. Though you push at it, it doesn’t budge.

You scoff—“Whatever”—before turning to leave. At the same time you do, you hear the grinding of the door behind you. You don’t have time to look before it’s swung open and a man is towering over you.

Surprised, you fall to the ground where bones dig into your bare back. The man looking down at you is far from a man. He’s round in all the wrong places and his skin looks grimy. His hands are almost black as coal. He wears a leather apron, probably from one of the meat factories you passed an hour before the truck broke down. It’s coated in blood, some dried and some fresh, still ripe with the scent of iron. None of this is what makes you nearly double over though. The man’s face…it’s far from a face. It’s human skin, haphazardly sewed to his own. When you’ve steadied your stomach enough to take it in in detail, you realize whose face it is. _Your boyfriend’s._

You scream and scramble to your feet before taking off to the front of the house. You push through the screen door and make it out onto the front porch before the man’s arms are around you. He hauls you into the air and back into the house where you kick outward in an attempt to flee. Your efforts are for nothing though as the man, the Leatherface man, pulls you behind the metal door.

He leads you down a dark stairwell and into a flooded basement where he lazily tosses you upon a workbench. Your back thunders with pain as you land on a jutted nail, the edge digging into your shoulder blade. You cry out and roll over to avoid any further damage. The Leatherface man doesn’t seem to notice. He’s busy searching through shelves that look like they’ve never been cleaned. The basement is far too dark for you to see what he’s doing, at least not until he’s upon you.

He comes at you with a length of rope. Though you try to fend him off, Leatherface is far stronger than you. He manages to wrestle you flat against the workbench where he ties your hands down. He does your legs next, leaving you defenseless to whatever he has planned. After seeing your boyfriend’s face on his, you can’t imagine the plan is anything good.

“Please,” you plead as calm as possible, not wanting to make Leatherface angry. “What do you want?”

He doesn’t answer and instead reaches for the button of your jeans. You squirm uncomfortably as he undoes and pulls them down, leaving you naked and exposed. With the fabric bundled around your ankles, Leatherface reaches for a knife that he uses to cut the jeans free. Once you’re free of clothes, he begins running a hand up your leg.

“What are you doing?” you ask without moving. Admittedly, there’s a bit of excitement in this. It reminds you of those romance novels where a princess is captured and forced to love the beast. Though, even more true, you don’t think you could ever love someone so grotesque.

Leatherface inches his hand higher. His hands, though gross, have a softness to them. The brush lightly against your thigh. When he brings his fingers beneath your balls, you gasp. The touch is like lightning.

You pant. “Oh…my…god.”

Leatherface eyes you and laughs. It’s grating and makes your spine curl. Thankfully, it doesn’t last long before he’s moving up, forgoing your cock for your stomach. He slips a pinky in your navel and swirls then keeps going. When he reaches your nipples, he pinches them. You scream as he refuses to relent, using such force that you think he may very well rip them off.

“Jesus, fuck!” you squeal, arching your back. In response, Leatherface brings in his other hand. He twists both of your nipples until tears sting your eyes. They spill over and roll down your temples. You whine for him to stop but he doesn’t. Instead, he twists harder. It isn’t until you manage to break free an ankle from the ropes that Leatherface releases you.

You lay back in a sweaty, gasping mess as you’re retied to the workbench. Once secured again, Leatherface turns to the shelves where he retrieves a chipped red candle and matchbox.

You eye the items and smile devilishly. “Oh, fuck. Yes, please.”

In one quick motion, the candle is lit. Leatherface holds it over your stomach, just below your navel, and waits. He meets your eyes and you challenge him with creased brows and a toothy grin. He knows what you want and he’s happy to give it.

With the candle burned sufficiently, Leatherface tips it and hot wax spills on your skin, splattering your stomach and pubes. You cry out and buck your hips as the heat dies down from a knife-cutting burn to a dull sting to a painless throb. The wax continues to drip as Leatherface guides the candle up your torso, marking your nipples and neck. When he’s done, it appears as if you have a red tank top on.

“Oh my god,” you breathe as he sets the candle aside. You watch eagerly as he makes his way to the opposite side of the workbench and takes up your pulsing cock. With his other hand, he cups your balls. Your eyes bulge as he squeezes them harder than you expect. Your stomach flutters and your throat closes in. He does it again and your tip gleams with precome.

“Please,” you beg, “let me come.”

Leatherface growls at you. At least, the throaty sound he makes sounds like a growl. He begins stroking you then, using your stringy precome as a lubricant. He continues to roughly massage your balls too. You moan and whine, your head rocking from side to side. You struggle against your restraints, desperate for more. That familiar climactic feeling rises in your groin. You gasp and feel the wet ropes of come shoot forward, dripping down on your wax-coated stomach.

“Fuck!” You cry out as the ropes seem to never want to stop. One after the other, they pool out. When you finally quit, you're left coated. Leatherface’s hand is nearly white with your come. He brings it to his mouth and licks it clean.

When he’s finished, Leatherface moves to the stairs where he waves at you before disappearing. A second later, you hear the metal door open and shut. You’re left in total silence then, the only sounds coming from a dripping pipe and your ever-beating chest.


End file.
